Westwater Canyon, Utah – There are some things in life that can be counted upon with a modicum of certainty. Among them, there is Buck.
The sun will rise in the East and set in the West, just as it always does. Flowers will bloom in spring, the snow will melt and the rivers will rise. And Buck will be there, just as he always is.
I don’t know why I experience the same hint of astonishment every April when I first encounter Buck. Perhaps it’s his innate mystique, the silent element of surprise ingrained in a subtle persona seemingly in spite of its consistency.
Despite having met more than a decade ago on a weeklong Cataract Canyon river excursion, I only recently learned Buck’s last name. But I’m fairly certain he prefers it that way. I couldn’t hazard a guess as to his age, and to date, I remain the only person I know to capture his image on film – more than a decade ago.
So it was with the traditional mix of shock and awe that I greeted Buck last week at the put-in to the Westwater Canyon stretch of the Colorado River, just northeast of Moab, Utah. Unable to contain it, I yelled my standard greeting across the parking lot: “Buck! You made it!”
“Oh, hey. Yeah, it’s our annual reunion,” Buck whispered back, just the way he always does.
Buck spends his winters in Antarctica, honing his MacGyver- esque dexterity at a research lab where he’s responsible for keeping the gears turning in one of the least hospitable environments on Earth. When his duties there are done, he heads north to Colorado, where his guru skills are put to use keeping a popular whitewater rafting company afloat from behind the scenes.
Before the rush of the season gets underway, however, it’s a Buck tradition to strap the similarly timeless self-built wooden oar frame to weathered blue Hypalon and shove off for an overnight Westwater adventure alongside a set of less experienced rivermen.
Along the way, he’ll often stop in at an Army surplus store in Grand Junction to add to the stash of widgets, bailing wire, ball bearings and Band-Aids he’ll eventually use to rebuild the carburetor or overhaul the transmission of some machine that only he and Zen anticipated would break down. Like a one-man pit crew with a doctorate in astrology, Buck sees engines the way that kid in the movies sees dead people. It’s a part of his mystery.
It’s possible Buck is aware of his mystique, although I expect it will always remain secondary to his humility.
Perhaps that explains the lure of the river, its shared aura of secrecy and charm drawing him in like Icarus to the sun. My hunch, though, is Buck has become a reflection of the water flowing beneath his raft, slipping quietly into the fluid world surrounding him. Constant yet mystifying, the river too remains, just as it always is.
Were he capable of anger, it might upset him to read it in print, but I consider it a privilege to start the paddling season by Buck’s side. And although we aren’t likely to be on a river together again before fall, I’ll do my best until then to embrace the same sense of humility and consistency he embodies right along with the unknown around every bend.
Afterward, the snow will fall and the rivers will freeze, and we’ll go our separate ways – a little older, perhaps wiser, maybe one step closer to unlocking the mystery – just like we always do.
Staff writer Scott Willoughby can be reached at 303-820-1993 or swilloughby@denverpost.com.
